


my temper is thin, but it hasn't been moving

by LookAlive_DeadEyes



Series: i think you saved my life [3]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anger, Angst, Existentialism, M/M, Self Harm, Sort of? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:45:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookAlive_DeadEyes/pseuds/LookAlive_DeadEyes
Summary: patrick knows pete. he knows what is happening when he cracks his neck too often, when the backs of his hands are scratched raw. patrick knows what pete needs.so at night patrick and pete will take a walk and pete will ramble, bitter sentences forming a lyrical prose of sorts as his thoughts drip from his tongue, tasting like a stale childhood candy.or, sometimes pete gets mad.





	my temper is thin, but it hasn't been moving

**Author's Note:**

> title credit: lose lose lose by swmrs

patrick knows pete. he knows what is happening when he cracks his neck too often, when the backs of his hands are scratched raw. patrick knows what pete needs. 

so at night patrick and pete will take a walk and pete will ramble, bitter sentences forming a lyrical prose of sorts as his thoughts drip from his tongue, tasting like a stale childhood candy.

he is raw, uncensored at these times. he has no will to bottle anything up, make sure it sounds okay. he knows nothing can be used against him, knows if he doesn’t get it out he will explode, simply put.

now, these walks go one of two ways. patrick much prefers the first way. the first is when more sadness than fury is in pete’s voice.

the first ends with the two of them in some kind of open area and pete will let loose, screaming at the sky until his throat is raw and hoarse, until he sounds like a new person and it scares patrick. it scares patrick how pete keeps punching his thigh, _for emphasis_ he says, _the pain helps_ he means. patrick will listen and then hold him as he collapses when his voice finally becomes more cracks than anything else, just as shattered as pete, because the sky didn’t answer when he screamed - it never does. 

the second is when every syllable is laced with resentment, when pete’s eyes get clouded over with anger. they end up in a back alley, pete’s sentences becoming redundant as he demands why, why, why, slamming his fists against brick walls until the knuckles split and then he will drop to his knees and scrape the sides of his hands on the ground, usually rocky asphalt, relishing in the pain.

patrick will try to let pete work himself out, but sometimes it goes on so long and there’s so much blood from pete’s hands and knees that patrick has to restrain him, holding his arms to his sides as he screams at god, the universe, whoever decided life was something that must be lived.

sometimes pete gets mad at patrick. yells that he doesn’t understand, flails to get out of his grip, but pete never hits patrick. he is terrified at the possibility.

no matter which night it is, patrick will hold pete up and guide him back to the bus. andy and joe pretend not to see, pretend not to notice whenever pete shatters and can’t quite manage to put himself together again.

patrick will glue him back together, make him whole again - or at least as whole as he can be with a few chunks missing. pete sometimes felt like one of those math blocks sets from elementary school, not really good for anything, missing a couple parts, but good at keeping the kids entertained long enough for the teacher to take a quick smoke break.

patrick will give him cough drops, pressing them to his lips every so often, a sickly sweet kiss meant to heal something incurably sick.

patrick will rinse his knuckles in the bus bathroom and it’s cramped and uncomfortable but pete is thankful, he’s never been more grateful for anything as patrick rubs neosporin into his hands and covers it with white gauze that reminds pete a bit too much of his time as a teenager.

the two of them will squeeze into one bunk, usually patrick’s - pete’s holds too many memories of sleepless nights. patrick will be the big spoon and sometimes pete will sob as the last of his anger drains from him. patrick will hold him and whisper sweet nothings into his ear, he can’t fix pete, he knows this, but he will try. he will try, because he can’t seem to control anything, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try.

and then eventually the sun will rise and gauze is ripped off, tales of wild bars and fist fights are woven, the lies that drip from pete’s tongue smell like sticky honey and lemon.

the only reminders of the anger that rests inside pete are in his lyrics, angry scrawl in black ink, reminiscent of the nights it bubbles over. patrick will take the words and transform them, turning the tortured poetry into songs.

cry me a river, write me a bridge, and get over it before the reporters catch on. it’s just how life is these days.

**Author's Note:**

> this was almost entirely written in a car on my phone at 10:30 pm whle listening to 90s baby by milkk. lowercase and weird writing style intended. say hi on tumblr @ toastingtotheghosts


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